


Murder and Mayhem

by athena_crikey



Series: Courting Death [5]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: AU, Implied Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Revenge, Second Sight - Freeform, Whump, assassins amok, h/c, psychic Hisoka, psychologically damaged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Even without reciprocating, even content to take all and give nothing in return, Illumi can feel himself becoming slowly intertwined with Hisoka, their lives stitched together with that same steel thread. Can feel the way he comes to expect the fortune teller’s presence, comes to want it. Like a seed buried for years in frozen earth, he’s finally felt the warmth of the sun, and he is growing up towards it.Until one day, it’s simply not there.
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck
Series: Courting Death [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895986
Comments: 7
Kudos: 85





	Murder and Mayhem

**Author's Note:**

> Violence isn't hugely graphic, but graphic enough that I should probably warn for it.

Having someone new in his life is strange. Illumi has greeted numerous siblings as they entered the Zoldyck family, and by extension the world, each starting life as a wailing bundle of blankets before growing steadily into solemnity. He has been peripherally aware of butlers coming and going, those who displease Mother dispatched swiftly and silently and replaced without a word. But Illumi himself has never before added anyone to his life. His world has been narrow as a steel thread, minute but binding. 

Hisoka is completely different than anyone in his family. The fortune teller appears to live subject only to his own whimsy, not bothering to plan or prepare for anything. He gives himself freely, as though he had infinite bounty to bestow, as though toughness or tenderness were limitless. 

In Illumi’s world a pat on the head is a coveted prize, a kiss on the cheek reserved for the most special of occasions. After two decades of living in that desiccated environment, Hisoka’s generosity threatens to drown him. It’s all he can do to accept the kisses and caresses; he rarely returns them. He finds he has to steady himself before meeting his – what? Boyfriend? Lover? He has no words for what Hisoka is to him. And that too is strange; never before has there been someone who didn’t fit perfectly into his world, every aspect of their relationship defined. Family, clients, marks. There is a finite number of ways in which others relate to him. 

Hisoka blows those boundaries out of the water like a howitzer. 

In fact, he is reliable only in his unreliability; after four months of seeing him Illumi still can’t predict his actions. They go to arcades and night clubs, tea shops and silent discos together. Hisoka gives him little gifts, toys Illumi doesn’t understand like finger traps and Rubik’s cubes, cheap things that serve more to remind him of Hisoka’s touch than to provide real amusement. 

He gives Hisoka nothing. Of course he pays for his share of their meals or entertainment, rents his own car to drive Hisoka to the beach and pays for gas. But gifts… gifts are for family. 

And yet… and yet, even without reciprocating, even content to take all and give nothing in return, Illumi can feel himself becoming slowly intertwined with Hisoka, their lives stitched together with that same steel thread. Can feel the way he comes to expect the fortune teller’s presence, comes to want it. Like a seed buried for years in frozen earth, he’s finally felt the warmth of the sun, and he is growing up towards it. 

Until one day, it’s simply not there.

  
***

Illumi’s been jetting between Europe and San Fran for months, living in rentals most of the time and conducting enough hits to keep his bank account topped up while spending his free time with the fortune teller.

Today he’s flying in on the redeye from Texas, a clean kill down in San Antonio. His rental car is waiting for him, a little Nissan convertible whose top he keeps deliberately closed. Hisoka likes nothing better than to fly down the highway with Illumi’s hair ripping in the wind, but Illumi prefers order to chaos. 

They don’t ever really plan their rendezvous (see: Hisoka; Emissary of Chaos), but Illumi has come to understand Hisoka’s schedule. In the morning he has a late breakfast and watches Netflix; in the afternoon he goes out to stir up trouble in town, and in the evenings he works. 

It’s still early, just past 9:30; Hisoka may even still be in bed, luxuriating in his cheap cotton sheets. Illumi anticipates the coffee he’ll make, perhaps with an omelette or hash browns and sausage. Hisoka buys meat past its best before date, but he’s also clairvoyant so Illumi has come to accept that he probably won’t get food poisoning. 

He parks around the corner and walks around block, the air warm and smelling faintly of the sea. He jogs down the steps to Hisoka’s door and knocks.

He waits for nearly a minute, allowing the fortune teller time to wake up and roll out of bed, but there’s no answer. He knocks again, waits. 

Rather than knocking a third time, he produces his lock picks and slips them into the lock. But the first practiced motion finds something odd – the door isn’t locked. He reaches out and opens it; it drifts inwards. He lets his picks go and slides a hand into his pocket for the knife he keeps there. Extends the blade, gleaming death at his fingertips. 

He steps into the apartment and stops; sniffs. There’s just a hint of wrongness to the air, not mustiness but instead sharpness. Chloroform. Illumi ghosts through the small space, quickly checking the bathroom, kitchenette, bedroom. Even the closet. 

Hisoka’s not here. There’s no sign of a struggle, but Illumi’s picked up enough to know this is wrong. 

He has been wronged. Someone has taken what is his. 

He blinks, staring at the Raiders of the Lost Arc poster, at the nondescript L-shaped couch, at the small green fern hanging from a macramé net in the kitchen. 

_His?_

This is just a place, and these are just things. But Hisoka… Hisoka, he realises, is more than that. Hisoka is not his friend, not his lover. 

Hisoka is _his_. It is as simply uncomplicated as that. Even understanding nothing more about the way in which their two lives fit together, he suddenly very clearly understands that fact. 

Illumi takes a last look around for anything that might suggest the identity of whoever took Hisoka, but there are no clues. 

Fortunately, there’s a CCTV camera across the street pointed almost directly at Hisoka’s door.

  
***

He calls Milluki to get the footage pulled from the CCTV, stubbornly staying on the line until his brother finally picks up. “I’m _in the middle of something_ , Illumi,” the younger Zoldyck hisses; in the background, Illumi can hear pre-recorded audio and keyboards clicking.

“I have a job for you. Top priority. You will do it now.”

“Look, now’s not –”

“Now, Milluki.” He doesn’t have to threaten; he doesn’t even have to raise his voice. Milluki knows full well what he’s capable of. 

“Fine. What?”

“I need CCTV footage pulled and sent to me.”

“From the States?”

“San Francisco,” confirms Illumi.

“No problem. But I thought you weren’t on a job.”

“I’m not. This is personal.”

“Wow. Big Brother Illumi is finally getting a life?”

“Pull the footage. I will email you the camera coordinates. And Milluki?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get between me and what’s mine.”

  
***

It takes Milluki 30 minutes to hack into the CCTV database, and another ten to find the right camera and connect Illumi with the footage. By this time Illumi is sitting in Hisoka’s apartment on his couch with his laptop on his lap, considering execution methods as he spins his knife between his fingers.

The laptop flashes when the file finishes downloading and he stabs the knife clean through the sofa’s stuffing and into the wooden frame. He can buy Hisoka a better one when the present situation has been dealt with.

He watches the footage on fast forward, scanning backwards through hours of recording. It’s not hard to spot the moment the snatch-and-grab happened. Late at night, Hisoka walking home from his work at a casino at 3am. A white, unmarked van parked right in front of the stairs to his home. He descends the stairs behind the van and the driver and passenger get out, following him down after he’s already opened the door. 

Illumi can’t see what happens next, the view blocked by the van. But a minute later the men reappear carrying a limp Hisoka between them. They load him into the back of the van and drive off. 

But not before Illumi has screencapped their faces and sent Milluki the images along with the time stamp for the footage so he can pull a plate from the van from neighbouring cams.

  
***

They’re small-time gang-bangers, of course, the kind who know none of the facts of the job except the tiny part they play in it, to keep from endangering the whole.

Illumi finds them in a house in San Francisco’s seedy Bayview, the house on one side boarded up and a sex shop operating out of a bungalow on the other side. 

The garage door is an old manual, the rusty corrugated iron painted over with graffiti; he can hear the low thrum of bass through it. Illumi walks right up to it and lifts it open, letting sunlight into the scene within. There are five of them watching a football game; the garage has been turned into a theatre. Two women, three men. The room stinks of beer, dope and sex, the ragged couches stained and the cracked cement floor sticky.

The men are on their feet as soon as the door opens, pistols appearing out of nowhere. Illumi has his own pistol, though, with silencer; he drops the one he doesn’t know with a headshot, and takes out a knee on each of the other two. By now the women are screaming – girls, really, all red lipstick and jewelled fingernails. His gun disappears and his knife comes out; blades are harder to trace. 

By the time he’s done with the women the two kidnappers are on their crippled knees, begging. Illumi sighs. Sooner or later, everyone always begs. Except Hisoka. That’s what makes him special.

They give up his fortune teller’s location without much fanfare; Illumi slits their throats matter-of-factly, wiping his blade clean on an ottoman and filling the garage with gasoline before dropping a match and walking out. It’s not a subtle message, but he’s not feeling very subtle.

The address Illumi is given is for a gated community near Berkeley, with bay views and tall palms waving in the breeze. There’s no guard at the gate, which neatly prevents another murder; hacking the system is a matter of seconds, and then Illumi’s rolling down the road between bland American McMansions. 

He parks his car one house down from his target to avoid drawing attention to himself. The neighbourhood is perfectly kept, grass mowed to within an inch of its life and flower beds carefully tended. Big windows reflect the blue sky; fountains with ugly statuary contribute a soft background purr. 

There’s no car in the driveway of the house he approaches but that doesn’t mean much; there’s a three-car garage attached to it. Cameras above capture his approach; he ignores them. He’s not here to be invisible, he’s here to send a message. He walks past the enormous garage and around the back of the house. 

Here there’s a pool and a tennis court, complete with canvas pavilion and wet bar. The deck is wide and pale pine, stained to appear a beach-combed grey. Illumi mounts the steps and walks over to the glass back door. There’s a security system here, but he disarms it in under two minutes. Pulls the door open and steps inside. 

The house smells of potpourri, some trendy mixture that’s probably custom-made for nouveau riche idiots. He’s standing in the kitchen, a wide space with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances and a commercial-quality gas range. It’s an open floor-plan with access leading in three directions to the hulking house. 

He doesn’t need to search the house to find what he’s looking for, though. All he has to do is follow the singing. 

“- _They call the Rising Sun,  
It’s been the ruin  
Of many a poor boy  
And God, I know, I’m one_.”

It’s Hisoka’s voice, words slurred and terribly off-tune as he belts out the maudlin tune. Illumi turns a corner, walks down a wide corridor, and finds himself in a large office. Maple floors, Indian hand-woven carpet, oak desk. 

And Hisoka, tied to a chair with arms, his head lolling on the top of the back’s crossbar. He’s stripped to the waist, and his alabaster skin is mottled with bruises and cigarette burns. 

Illumi’s hands tighten, tendons rising like cords. 

“ _My mother was a tailor,  
She sewed my new blue jeans_,”

“Hisoka,” says Illumi, crossing over to him and leaning over him. His eyes are dim, unfocused. 

On the large desk beside him are a few medical vials and a syringe lying scattered. Illumi picks them up. Sedatives. Scopolamine. Sodium thiopental.

Truth serum. 

Illumi puts down the vials, looks back to Hisoka. There are red injection marks freckling the skin of his right inner arm. 

“ _Hisoka_ ,” says Illumi, bending over him. He puts his hand under Hisoka’s chin and tilts his head up. The singing stops abruptly as Hisoka sucks in a breath like a diver breaking the surface. His eyes are wide, gold a full circle around his overly-dilated pupils. 

“A lovely little knife,” he hums, “Right up under his chinny-chin-chin. Ah, who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?” He leans his head against Illumi’s hands, eyelashes fluttering heavily. “Hello, ‘Loomi,” he slurs. 

“I’m taking you home,” states Illumi. He unfolds his knife and cuts through the harsh rope binding Hisoka’s arms and legs to the chair. Hisoka slips off bonelessly, Illumi catching him under the arms. 

“Don’t get between me and what’s mine,” whispers the fortune teller, head on Illumi’s shoulder, voice breathy. 

“Good advice,” says Illumi. He hauls Hisoka up to his feet, aware of his arms sliding over burns and bruises. Hisoka doesn’t seem to care, probably too drugged to notice. “And how did it come to this? Aren’t you supposed to be clairvoyant?”

“ _Mothers, tell your children  
Not to do what I have done_,” belts Hisoka in his ear. Illumi’s nose wrinkles. He makes to hitch Hisoka onto his shoulder. “Mm, I wouldn’t do that,” slurs the fortune teller. 

“Why not?”

Without looking, Hisoka reaches out and points straight-armed at the door to the office. “You are nothing,” he says, head still nestled against Illumi’s neck. Illumi looks at it. It’s closed, the house beyond silent. Carefully, Illumi lets Hisoka sink back into his chair and walks to the door. 

From the other side, he hears footsteps. His knife is in his hand in an instant, his eyes narrow. The door swings open, Illumi against the wall to its side; an older man walks in with a car battery in his hands. Illumi shadows his steps silently as he crosses the room and puts the battery down on the desk. He has a pair of jumper cables too; he affixes them to the leads, then turns. 

Which is when he discovers Illumi’s knife poking right up under the soft meaty skin of his chin, Illumi’s free hand locking onto his shoulder. “I am not amused,” says Illumi. The man’s eyes roll up to stare at him. His knee draws back to gather momentum and Illumi slides the knife in so that a drop of blood trickles down the blade. “That would be a mistake.”

“Who are you?” His jaw hardly moves, words slipping through his teeth. 

“The man you shouldn’t have crossed.” He turns to Hisoka. “Any last words for him?”

“Wait – we can talk about this. He’s nothing, I’ll let him go! You can have him!”

Illumi’s eyes narrow. “He is nothing? No. You are nothing.”

“Wai –” 

There’s a wet sound as Illumi drives his knife upwards, hilt hitting the flabby chin. The man goes limp, and when Illumi draws the blade out blood pours out as though from a tap. He steps back and lets the body hit the floor. 

“Time to go,” he says to Hisoka, tucking away his knife. 

“ _Homeward bound, I wish I were_ ,” hums Hisoka. Illumi hauls him up onto his shoulders, Hisoka boneless and limp. 

Illumi carries him out into the backyard, around the garage, and down the driveway to the street. He decants Hisoka into the passenger seat, then rounds to his own. “Hisoka?”

“ _Home, where my love lies waiting  
Silently for me._”

“I’ll never wait for you,” replies Illumi, starting the car. “I don’t wait for what’s mine to come to me. I find it first.”

  
***

Instead of bringing Hisoka home to his basement apartment, Illumi takes him to his rental apartment. After slashing and burning his way through the fools stupid enough to take Hisoka he doubts they’ll be back, but he’s not in the mood for further violence. Not when Hisoka is so strangely helpless.

He brings the fortune teller into his apartment, a tall-ceilinged space with a view of Golden Gate Park. He settles Hisoka in the bed, letting him relax back into the supple mattress and thick pillows, then goes to wash the blood off himself and change. When he returns Hisoka is sleeping; he carefully washes his wounds and bandages him from the first-aid kit he keeps with his travel pack. 

There’s a TV in the bedroom; Illumi turns it on on mute and sits on the bed beside Hisoka’s slumped form, watching a soap opera which needs no sound to communicate its drama. 

Hisoka’s face is pale, the shadows under his eyes lavender. His bright hair is thick with grease and gel, strands falling over his forehead in disarray. His chest is covered with taped squares of gauze protecting the raw cigarette burns, the skin between black and blue from blows with what look like brass knuckles. If it were just a regular beating, Illumi could believe this was some angry client, someone who Hisoka had insulted, ultimately at his own expense. But the truth drugs speak to something deeper – a desire for secrets Hisoka possesses. 

Illumi can only imagine that they are the secrets of his strange skill. He runs a thumb down the side of Hisoka’s cheek and the fortune teller flinches, just slightly, in his sleep. Hisoka, for all his wildness and wantonness, keeps himself under fierce control. A control sleep robs him of. And drugs? Almost certainly. He had clearly been unable to focus his clairvoyance at the mansion, past and future mixed together with the present like a toddler’s finger painting. Illumi can only imagine the state of his mind, usually so sharp, dulled to a paste. He reaches out and feathers his fingers through Hisoka’s hair. 

Tenderness. He is displaying tenderness. He stares down at his fingers, bright strands of hair curling over the pale digits. In the soft afternoon sunlight pouring in through the large bedroom windows Hisoka’s hair is slightly bleached, colour syphoned out of it, while Illumi’s skin almost glows. They’re woven together, intertwined. 

“How strange,” he says softly. But he doesn’t pull back his hand.

  
***

Hisoka wakes late in the afternoon, his eyes still dull and his movements heavy. He stares up at Illumi for several seconds before speaking, his eyes blinking slowly. “Illumi?”

“Yes.”

“Are you really here?”

“Yes.”

Hisoka considers for a moment. Then: “So, not a dream.”

“No.”

“And did you really knife that bastard?”

“Yes, that too. You’re at my apartment. You’re safe.”

“Mm. Even with you here?” His eyes are wide, strangely innocent. 

“ _Because_ I’m here,” replies Illumi. He places a hand on Hisoka’s shoulders, his fingers digging just lightly into his flesh. 

“I see.” Hisoka’s head is lying back on the pillows Illumi arranged under it, his gaze unfocused. 

“They wanted you – that was not acceptable.”

“They wanted me to tell their fortunes. I would have done that for five dollars. But to work for them as their pet psychic? No appeal there.” He shakes his head slowly. “Then it all got a bit… blurry.”

“They tried to make you talk.”

“I don’t think I did. Or if I did, I doubt it made much sense. But really, I don’t remember much. You, I remember. I’ll always know the feel of your future.” He smiles, eyes closed. 

“Hisoka?”

“Mm?”

“I want to buy you something.” Even as he says it, he knows he’s committed. Knows what he’s been through today has proven to him that Hisoka is his, beyond a doubt.

Hisoka’s smile softens. “A ring would be nice,” he muses. “With your name on it – maybe something flashy and pretentious in white gold…”

“No. An apartment.”

Hisoka’s eyes open and he looks up at Illumi, brow furrowing. “You want to buy me an apartment?”

“Yes. With better security. And perhaps a view.”

Hisoka appears to think about it for a minute. “There is no obligation,” he begins.

“I’ll buy it because I want to,” says Illumi. 

“Mm. It’s the only reason to do anything.” Hisoka raises his head and loops his bare arm over Illumi’s shoulders. Draws him close for a kiss. It tastes of blood. Illumi sighs. 

“Then that’s agreed. Although…”

“Although?”

He peers down at Hisoka, now squirming to lie closer beside him. “If you can see the future, I don’t see how they managed to grab you.”

Hisoka shrugs. “I only see what I read, either from touch or cards. I made no effort to read my future, and thus had no warning. After all, knowing everything that’s going to happen would be so boring.”

“It would have saved a lot of trouble, though.”

The fortune teller’s eyes curve with pleasure. “Love, I’m nothing but trouble,” he purrs. “If I weren’t, we wouldn’t have anything in common.”

“Instead of…?”

Hisoka lays his head on Illumi’s chest, the weight of it solid, heavy. “Murder and mayhem, of course. What more could I ask?”

END


End file.
